


Stone Number

by leo_lullaby



Series: Brie's Late Night Sam Drabbles [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Blood Loss, Episode: s08e06 Southern Comfort, Guilty Sam, He probably said something similar, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It is way in the past, LMK if I am missing anything..., Read the tags friends, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Self-Hatred, Some Spoilers, Suicidal Sam, Worried Dean, Yes I made up some of what Dean might have said at one point, eventual feels, eventually, probably..., sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:32:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5459897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_lullaby/pseuds/leo_lullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after s8e06: "Southern Comfort" (There are trigger warnings for a reason, friends! Please keep in mind!)</p><p>In times of distress, Sam likes to think over facts. He has dangerous methods of keeping his mind busy. It has worked in the past, so it should work now...<br/>Until all of his stones to build off of are gone and turned against him, so he crumbles.</p><p>Fifth chapter now up!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Derived

In times of distress, Sam likes to think over facts. He has played damsel-in-distress many times in his life. Or captive. Or bait. Or anything really that ends up with him tied to a chair and waiting.

Waiting for Dean. For a way out. For death.

Anything really.

Something to pass the time.

The truth behind being a hostage is that there is a slippery slope between wanting to avoid pain and wanting to avoid boredom. Captors want to instill fear. So they inflict pain. Sam has personal experience with this. Shapeshifters, ghouls, humans sometimes, pagan spirits, witches, too many demons to count… the list goes on.

Sam has been tied up, pinned down, stretched out, caged in, and everything in between.

Pain is something he uses to focus. Pain and facts. They are both such corporal forces. There is no way to second guess either and he has had a lot of experience in both areas. Pain has been his grounding force ever since the apocalypse days. It’s easy to get and quick to work. Better than any drug. Free too.

Dean thinks it has stopped, and he is right for the most part. If you check Sam’s hand there is only the faintest of silver crescent moons shining across his palm. Those days are over. Sure, Sam has scars. What hunter doesn’t? The smirk from the devil etched into his palm is no different.

But those were different days.

Pain is not always what he goes to, only on the more difficult days. Sometimes it is the first step to him calming down and collecting his head, other times he starts reciting numbers in Greek.

Only Amelia has seen the other scars. The ones Dean never found out about. The desperation scars. The _ugly_ ones.

Those can only be seen when Sam is completely uncovered, when vital areas like hips and thighs can be seen. Those are stress relief. It’s just another thing to keep the boredom away. To keep him calm.

His one true love was a psychology major, he doesn’t bunch up scars in obvious places. He is a trained, secretive, and deceptive man by trade, not an idiot. He doesn’t need people asking questions.

Amelia used to ask sometimes, when he wanted to just forget and ended up clearing his head too much to be cautious enough and the cuts were fresh. He always had an answer. A _made-up_ fact... But a fact. To him at least.

He knows what addiction is. Been there, done that, didn’t work, over it. This is not addiction. Sam is a logical man. He can self-diagnose perfectly well, thank you very much.

This was survival. It still is. This was the only way to find _stone number fucking one_ because the real, living thing was gone… dead.

Sam tried to look. _Good lord_ did he try. Books. Demons. Other hunters. No one knew a damn thing and Sam had a missing brother and angel on his hands. He still has trouble using the label “dead.” Then he ran over a dog and had to stop because dammit he could not have another life taken away by his hands.

But half of that equation is currently back and living and breathing. That is enough for now.

Well, it was until today.

The truth always hurts him. That is the razor-edge difference between truth and fact. He always gets a headache and heartache when facts are the things that inflict pain on him. Both of his coping mechanisms gang up and hit him full force. He does not know what to turn to then. How is he supposed to control that?

Stone number one?

That would have worked normally, even the past few weeks, but not tonight. Not when Garth has already gone on his way and the two brothers are laid over in another motel and Dean bailed to go get drunk. Away from him. Anywhere but with Sam.

So he is here in this motel room that is an ugly shade of orange that sometimes seems more yellow than red or the other way around depending on the waves of haziness that keep hitting him and making him cross-eyed. The truth is fresh and stabbing and it hurts deep in his chest.

_“Benny has been more of a brother to me this past year than you’ve ever been.”_

The truth is cutting him open like a knife. Pinning him to the table and dissecting him slowly for everyone to see. Dean was right. He has been a horrible brother. He gave up. Metaphorically killed his brother and arguably one of his closest friends. Almost killed a dog. Found a girl instead. Scratch that, a _married_ girl. Left her too. He has quite the track record. And that has just been the past year.

Another wave of dizziness and nausea hits and the walls pulse red for a second. Sam cringes and squeezes his eyes shut, leaning back weakly against the side of the bed. He realizes now that he ended up sitting on the floor. This carpet is scratchy, and an equally ugly shade of brown. Maybe it used to be beige.

Sam huffs out a strained sigh and sinks back further against the side of this too-stiff bed that smells like cheap detergent. His neck cranes back to let his head rest on the mattress. This comforter is damn itchy too and he can feel static starting to pull at his hair. It makes sense, considering how much he has been awkwardly shifting to try and reduce the pain the past half an hour or so. Maybe it has been an hour by now. Who knows?

He feels like a hostage again. His limbs are heavy and he feels trapped and time is irrelevant. He tries to move but the effort is wasted and the effort makes him sick to his stomach so he stops. He recognizes the faint shaking in his hands and the uncomfortable cold sweat on his forehead and cheeks. His heartbeat is fast in his ears and his vision switches from perfectly clear and blinding edges to fuzzy graying shadows.

The trained part of his brain informs him that these symptoms would suggest illness or injury or shock. But he doesn’t have any of those. He can’t. He doesn’t deserve that simple of an excuse. He did this to himself, there is no outside force to blame.

He can self-diagnose perfectly well, thank you very much.

_…more of a brother to me in this past year…_

The truth makes the stinging in his bones and burning beneath his skin seem insignificant.

_…than you have ever been._

Dean’s scowl paints his mind and is the only clear image he can focus on. Sam cringes again and sinks back further into his forced and uncomfortable seated position. He is trapped. He can _feel_ it.

He has to get out.

He can’t move.

His fingers claw at the torn, red-stained fabric of his jeans and the action hurts. He sucks in a sharp breath and waits for the wave of black to subside from his vision. Pain isn’t helping. Stone number one walked out the door at least an hour ago. Maybe more. Who the hell knows anymore?

He needs data. He needs details, research, _Sam, come on, gimme the facts…_

Sam blinks sluggishly and lets his head rest back once more so he can trace invisible shapes in the plaster of the ceiling. He digs his fingers into the soaked fabric clinging to his thighs and hisses in another breath. _Facts,_ Winchester, go.

_…more of a brother to me in the past year…_

Sam snaps his head up, shaking it quickly. His hair hits him in the face and he wants to rip it out. His hands press tighter against his thighs. The pain is immediate and crippling.

He can’t move. He is trapped... again...

_…than you have ever been…_

Sam physically growls, the sound twisted and low in his chest, and his long legs bend to automatically draw his knees to his chest. He chokes out another startled gasp when the muscles strain and burn, threatening to give out. The pain isn’t helping and what the _hell_ does he do and stone number _whatever_ walked out the... the _whatever whenever_ ago and-and…

_…more of a brother to me…_

Brother. Sam blinks slowly, his head starting to limply droop forwards. His hands are slick with scarlet wetness and his legs hurt too much to do anything. His chin hits his shoulder with his head’s descent and his teeth painfully click together, snagging the side of his lower lip in the process. The pain barely registers anymore over the pounding in his skull, simply adding to the festering heat coursing through his veins.

_…more of a brother…_

_Details, Sam, give me the rundown, man._

_Brother. Noun. “A boy or man who has one or both of the same parents with another.”_

Sam snickers lightly at that and the sound gurgles slightly from the blood in his mouth. Sure, he and Dean share parents. He wonders if Dean ever wishes that was not true. Dean’s life would be much different if Sam had never been born. No demon blood. No apocalypse. No dying. Mary would be alive. So would John. No hunting…

_“A man who is from the same group or country as you.”_

Is purgatory a country? Sure, what the hell. He has never been great at diagnosing anything regardless…

_“A thing that resembles or is connected to another thing.”_

Well, surely Benny and his brother are connected. They have probably saved each other’s lives more times than Sam can count, just within the timeframe of a year. Benny even uses the term "brother" often when talking to Dean. As a way of endearment. Of trust. Sam never could be that for Dean…

_Facts, Sam, give me facts, skip all of your extra emo crap._

_Etymology of “brother.” From the Greek adelphos, meaning "brother of the womb" or "brother by blood." Adelphos: from alpha (as a cop. prefix) and delphus (womb)._

He wishes they were not from the same womb sometimes. He doesn’t deserve that. He tainted Mary. He tainted his family. He tainted his brother… life, death, and being.

_Derived from the Latin word germanus, meaning “own brother” or “full brother.” Derived from the Latin word germen, meaning “bud, germ, sprout, or shoot…”_

_Sammy, man, you are shooting up like a weed, what are we feeding you that I ain’t eating?_

_…Derived from the Latin word gignere, meaning “to give birth to, to bring forth, to bear.”_

_Of course I gotta watch out for you, Sammy, always have. Because ‘s my job! Bitch, stop asking questions and do your homework, I got mac n’ cheese. Yeah that’s right, I’m an awesome big brother._

_Derived…_

_Come on Sammy, I need facts man, don’t conk out on me now we just started looking through all of this stuff. You’re the one with the brains, college boy, you do the reading. …_

_Derived…_

_More of a brother to me…_

Sam’s chin finally hits his chest. The orange and red and yellow and brown and more red is gone because his eyes are closed. His fingers jerk and tense against the worn fabric of his jeans, snagging roughly against his split skin, and send one last rush of sharp pain up his muscles before they fall lax once more. His feet slide out away from him until they hit the opposite bed.

Dean’s bed. Closer to the door. Like always.

His hair tickles his cheek, but it is better than the scratchy motel comforter. The pain is numbed away, simmering down underneath this swirling darkness.

_More of a brother…_

_…Derived from the Proto-Indo-European root genə- meaning “kin…”_

_Than you have ever been._

_…Derived from…_

_SAM!_

_…Derived..._

_From…_

_Sammy, hey, hey little brother don’t play this game, not right now. Sam. SAM!_

_More of…_

_Brother… from…_

The pain is back in a sharp moment of clarity and he barely holds back a stifled yell. The pain hurts. The truth is ripping him apart from the inside out. There is pressure on his thighs and it stings.

_More of a brother-_

_Sammy, hey come on little brother, let me see those eyes._

A hand grips underneath his chin, shaking his head strongly a few times and raising it up. He feels the change in pressure against his chest. His mind spins for a second with vertigo in the darkness. The solid but gentle grip changes so two hands are underneath either side of his jaw. He feels roughened thumbs pressing against his cheeks. His head is jerked again in a worried attempt to rouse him.

_…a brother-_

_SAM!_

Another few shakes before his head is lifted higher, allowing his neck to straighten out and causing air to flood his lungs. A gasp rips its way out of his trembling body. His eyelids flutter against the fatigue, catching glimpses of the bright orange and dulled red and sharp green. His eyebrows furrow slightly and he forces himself to continue blinking against the shadows.

_…to me than you have…_

_You and me against the world, Sammy._

_SA-_

“-am! Hey, Sammy, come on buddy, there we go. Attaboy, let me see those eyes.” Sam winces against the room that somehow got brighter and automatically shrinks away from Dean’s caring iron touch.

The hands leave the sides of his neck and automatically his head begins to droop again. He hears Dean swear worriedly and suddenly there are strong arms around his torso and hoisting him up. The pressure changes against his thighs and Sam automatically cries out. His hands scramble for purchase and find Dean’s shoulders. He automatically tries to shy away again but Dean keeps him strongly held to his chest as he lifts the younger brother up onto the bed.

As soon as the hands are off of him, Sam rolls onto his side facing away from his brother. He is panting like he just ran a marathon and scrambles across the scratchy comforter-covered mattress to try and reach the other side. He grabs the edge of the bed, trying to pull himself over since his legs are numb and useless. Red stains his palms and leaves handprints and smears on the yellow fabric. Or maybe it is orange...

_More of a brother to me…_

Sam is practically swallowing air as he tries to force his legs to move for him. He reaches the other side of the bed and has one shoulder hanging off when suddenly the hands worn down from years of hunting grab him again. A twisted sound of guilt flies from Sam’s throat before he can stop it. He tries to jerk away again but the hands hold him strongly.

“SAM!” Dean’s voice pierces his swirling head.

He automatically looks to his brother’s voice, cracking his eyes open further. Dean’s eyes are wide and panicked, focused solely on him. The thought pulls a small smirk into the corner of Sam’s mouth. Funny, Dean is listening now.

Dean’s eyebrows knit together and Sam sees the surge of fear, anger, and confusion in his gaze.

“What the _hell,_ Sam?” Dean grabs the back of his neck in one hand and shakes once more for emphasis.

“Jesus Christ, give me a damn heart attack.” Dean growls out worriedly, still searching Sam’s face for reasoning, answers, lucidity, anything…

Sam’s eyes lazily track over his face and then he smiles. He actually _smiles._ Dean’s blood floods with ice, realizing the shock hitting his brother. He quickly lays Sam down correctly on the mattress, eying the mess of blood on his little brother’s lap out of the corner of his eye. He grabs Sam’s bloodstained hands to see if there is actually any damage there.

“Hey De’n?” Sam’s hoarse voice grabs his attention and he leans over Sam so they are eyelevel.

Sam’s eyes are glazed over and far away, searching the ceiling blindly. A loose smile pulls at his mouth and his tongue pokes curiously at the cut in his lip before he sighs brokenly.

“Y-You remember when I broke m’arm that one time,” Sam snorts drunkenly, face pale and sweaty from blood loss, “’n you had to bike me to the hospit’l?”

Dean stares oddly at his brother for a moment, trying to catch his wandering gaze, before nodding and blinking rapidly.

“Y-Yeah Sam, of course, why-?”

“Why’d you’do it?” Sam’s eyes flicker down to meet Dean’s.

Dean almost withdraws from seeing the pure brokenness and desperation there. Leave it to Sam to just tear at the deepest barb in his heart and want to rip it out in the most inconvenient times. Dean takes a steadying breath and swallows down the lump in his throat. He knows what Sam is looking for, even if the dumb kid won’t ask for it.

“Because you’re my little brother, Sam,” Dean stares at Sam, gaze unwavering, “And it will always be my job to watch out for you.”

Sam’s smile slips away and his face seems to pale even more. He swallows roughly and nods once. His eyes fog over again and Dean can sense he is losing him. He feels movement behind him and straightens up to see Sam’s bloodied hands shifting to press into the towels hastily trying to stem the rapid blood flow from his thighs. His shaking hands try to push the makeshift bandages away and claw at the wounds beneath, making Dean snap into motion.

He grabs Sam’s wrists and forces his hands away from his legs, squeezing tightly just to feel his little brother’s pulse in his hands.

“Sam, stop!”

“C-Can’t… hurts…” Sam mutters feverishly, throwing his head to the side against the pillow.

Dean swallows tightly and shakes Sam’s wrists in his fists once to try and recapture his brother’s frantic eyes.

“Yeah, I know your thighs hurt, Sam, you went to town on them pretty badly. You have to calm down, man. I can’t fix it if you don’t-”

“No!” Sam’s voice is broken and cracks but the sudden shrillness of it makes Dean’s breath catch.

Dean licks his dry lips nervously and is about to talk again when Sam weakly pulls at his trapped arms and continues to shake his head back and forth blindly. His little brother’s skin is hot against Dean’s palms and Sam’s pulse hammers against his fingers.

“D-Don’t fix it. Y-You sh-shouldn’t. Need it… N-Need…” Sam swallows roughly and coughs once, sending blood trailing out the side of his mouth from the reopened cut in his lip.

Dean’s heartrate spikes and he abandons Sam’s wrists to instead reach for his little brother’s head, holding the sides of his face strongly to try and meet his wide hazel eyes. Dean sees Sam’s pupils are blown wide and there is a fine layer of sweat covering his overheated skin. Is the kid sick…?

“Sam!” Dean shouts his name and shakes him once for emphasis.

Sam’s lips gape and mouth silent words. Scarlet stains his lip and chin against his paled skin. His eyes finally seem to register Dean and he suddenly freezes. Dean’s eyebrows furrow further in confusion. He feels every muscle in Sam’s body suddenly stiffen and tense. What the _hell?_

“Sam, what’s going on, why is this happening?” Dean keeps his voice low.

He is afraid to break the sudden stillness, but _dammit,_ he needs answers. Sam seems to deflate awkwardly, like his body wants to relax but his brain is commanding him to stay tense.

“I’m not your brother.”

The words are so soft and raspy Dean can barely make them out. He grabs the sides of Sam’s jaw tighter, fingers fanning out to his ears and neck and brushing the stupidly long hair there. Dean grits his teeth together, trying to process the words and figure out some other meaning behind them. Because Sam… Sammy, his little brother, could not be saying that. He couldn’t. He-

Sam’s eyes suddenly flicker to the side and the visual break between the two of them causes the younger brother to inhale a ragged gasp. Dean is just about to follow his frantic gaze when Sam suddenly meets his eyes once more. The wide hazel puppy-dog eyes suddenly melt a little around the edges, trying to convey the deep hurt and sorrow burning under this wild fear. Dean opens his mouth to talk, recognizing some part of _his_ Sam in that look, when his little brother suddenly rushes out one more sentence in a weak but panicked voice.

“I’m sorry.”

It feels like a punch to his chest. Dean does not remember exactly what he said to his brother under the influence of that damn cursed penny, but he has gathered it was some bad shit. He had no idea it was _this_ bad, by any means. Good _lord,_ no wonder the kid has been acting like an emotional, pouty teenager since Garth took off.

“Look Sam, what I said-”

“’s true, I know, I know,” Sam’s voice is even more breathless and strained now.

His eyes are wide and his pupils are huge pools of ink and he is sweating like he is in a sauna and Dean can still smell the faint copper in the air from the hastily bandaged and compressed wounds on his thighs, but if the kid doesn’t calm down then Dean will have a 6’4” deadweight on his hands.

Dean’s hands release his brother’s feverish neck and slide down to grab his shoulders strongly. He searches Sam’s flickering gaze for a second, trying to reconnect with the struggling, lucid awareness in his brother. He wants to try and explain how wrong this all is, but he sees that Sam is slowly losing his connection to the real world and getting lost in his head again.

“No, Sam-”

“I’m sorry.”

The same words pack a different punch this time. Sam’s voice is still rushed and trembling, but it is softer. His skin is burning beneath Dean’s fingers, even through the fabric of his shirt, and slick with an ill sheen of sweat. His face is milky white and seems to pale even more. Sam swallows raggedly and the sudden change in unlocked emotion in his eyes almost sends Dean staggering back.

Dean can feel the fine line Sam is balancing on between painful reality and feverish unconsciousness and his fingers dig tighter into his brother's shoulders to try and pull him back into this world. Sam barely even responds to the increased pain, which sends a nervous pang up Dean’s spine.

Instead Sam’s defeated eyes shift to the side, away from Dean’s, and his head follows to turn and fall against the pillow. Dean wants to believe it is exhaustion from the emotional episode finally draining his brother, but Sam’s strong gaze makes that hope vanish. The eerie stillness of tense exhaustion settles across Sam’s body again and Dean automatically holds his breath, fearful of breaking this fragile peace once more.

A bone-deep sigh rumbles up out of Sam’s chest. His eyes flutter slightly and his muscles jerk once before relaxing more than they have since Dean arrived. He swallows roughly, absently tonguing at the cut in his lip again before falling motionless in this unnerving tense calm.

“I’m sorry.”

The words tumble from Sam’s lips once more, quiet and exhausted. It sends ice up and down Dean’s spine with how calm, panicked, and defeated his brother’s tone is. Sam’s head is still turned so his cheek rests on the pillow, but his eyes are locked in that direction.

Dean automatically follows his little brother’s gaze to his right and he unwillingly gasps out the breath he was holding. Dean stares in disbelief at the nightstand with an orange prescription pill bottle opened and sideways against the wood, empty and seeming to mockingly glow with the yellow light of the room, and twistable cap nowhere to be found.


	2. Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the feedback, you are all lovely souls. This scene ended up being much longer than expected, but I am rolling with it. There will probably be only one or two more chapters after this, depending on what ya'll want.

Dean feels himself become motionless. He cannot feel his body as his muscles shut down and his mind buzzes in the distance.

No. No way. Not Sam. Not Sammy.

Dean wants to just keel over right there. His body is numb and he is mentally floating somewhere else. This can’t be true. This is a trick. A mistake. Something messing with his mind. Too many drinks at the bar and he is having a nightmare.

Sam’s shoulders deflate under his hands and everything snaps back into awareness. Dean blinks rapidly and swallows down the lump in his throat. His eyes analytically roam over Sam’s body again, this time with a new awareness. Dean grits his teeth and takes notice of his little brother’s sudden calm despite the sweat shining his skin and his heartbeat jackhammering under Dean’s fingers when he takes Sam’s pulse against his neck. Shock. Definitely shock. And blood loss. Overdose…

Sam is still breathing. His breaths are forced and deep. He seems to be almost wheezing, his exhales are low and rasping. Dean grabs the sides of Sam’s face and jerks his head up so it is lying neutrally on the pillow. He could probably have done it a little nicer but hey, he’s a little pissed right now. Sam’s eyes flutter with the motion and he lets out a low moan but otherwise makes no objections.

“Sammy, open your eyes.” Dean commands lowly, his voice is controlled and deep to keep his emotions in check.

Sam grumbles slightly and his hands twitch where they are resting limply on his chest. The blood staining his skin there is drying and makes Dean’s heart skip a beat when his little brother’s fingers try to curl slightly in protection. Dean inhales shakily and returns his gaze to Sam’s disoriented face.

“Sam!” Dean shakes his brother’s head strongly once, leaning over him to try and get through this drug and pain induced haze.

Sam’s eyelids flutter slightly again and his lips twitch in a grimace. He tries to shake his head but Dean’s hands hold him firmly in place. Sam’s shaking hands weakly rise from resting against his ribcage to drunkenly bat at Dean’s forearms. The familiar wrinkle appears in Sam’s brow and Dean is not sure whether that is a good sign or not.

“Sammy, I need you to focus right now. Look at me kiddo, let me see those eyes.” Dean urges gently, keeping his hands firmly along the sides of Sam’s jaw despite his brother’s weak efforts of protest.

“G’way… you can’t… ‘m not…” Sam slurs the words out.

“Sam!” Dean cuts him off sharply, “What the hell did you do? Dammit, Sam, this is not a joke right now!”

Sam scowls and his body jerks feebly in an attempt to alleviate the pain and just get away. He looks up at Dean with pained eyes scanning for nothing in particular and Dean searches his brother’s wide pupils for a second, seeing how Sam’s hazel gaze is slightly glazed over and weak, heading into the dangerous zone of delirium.

“N’t tryin’ to’be funny.” Sam mutters sowly and drowned under a sense of almost… fear.

Dean senses the desperation in those words and pauses. Sam finally manages to grab Dean’s wrists feebly. The dried blood against his skin makes Dean almost shiver with discomfort. Sam is still semiconscious. Still alive. That is something. Dean can work with that.

“Well what then? Wanted to finally check out on me?!”

Dean can feel his temper rising and threatening to blow everything else out of the water. It would not be the first time it has happened. The realization that his idiot genius younger brother is still kicking right now is being smothered by the fear and anger that is waiting to latch onto his heart if the situation suddenly takes a sharp turn for the worst.

“Sam, answer me!” Dean barks the order out gruffly, a voice in the back of his head scolding him for carrying the tone over from another past dictating figure in their lives and simultaneously sparking a hint of fear at the coldness of his own voice.

Sam blinks owlishly a few times. That sliver of fear Dean recognized earlier seems to be growing and spreading. His lips struggle to form words and he shakily wraps his fingers tighter around Dean’s wrists.

“W-Wasn’t tryin’ t-to ch… check out-” He loses his voice for a second and winces at the tremors beginning to wrack his body.

Dean feels the internal battle between wanting to break down in his brother’s raw fear and hug the taller man close to him and shield him from the world verses flaring up at the stupid actions his brother has taken wage painfully in his chest. Dean grits his teeth and his thoughts race to try and make sense of all of this.

“So what then, just trying to take a nap? A nice long one?” His voice is lower but by no means less intense or demanding.

Sam’s eyes close and he squints in what could be pain or could just as likely be heartache. He grits his teeth and takes in faint, shuddering breaths.

“J-Just…” His voice is hoarse and fading, “Just n-needed t-to forget…”

Dean’s blood runs cold at that. Sam’s eyes are fading more and more and the giant hands wrapped around his wrists are starting to slacken and slide away. Dean curses and reaches for Sam’s shoulders to heave his brother into sitting position. Sam moans lowly but otherwise makes no objection, proving just how far gone he is already. He slumps forwards against Dean’s shoulder and the positioning of the both of them sends a new wave of fear down Dean’s spine.

The last time he was clutching his mammoth brother like this with the younger man limp against his chest was one of the worst times of his life. He is not letting that happen again. No way. Especially not over some dumb words he spit out in a rage of frustration and curses.

“N-Needed th-the pain… t-to think… a-and th'n n-need’d th’pain t-to st-stop…” Sam’s voice is barely a whisper into the fabric of his jacket and the words throw Dean out of his head and back into the situation at hand.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and hugs Sam closer to him, feeling for his pulse with one hand against his neck and holding him upright with the other against his broad back. Sam’s heartbeat is rapidly climbing and Dean can feel his shallow exhales against his shoulder, weak and raspy.

“I gotta get you to the hospital, Sammy, we don’t have any other option right now man.” Dean tells him in a low, rushed voice.

Sam groans against his neck and shakes his head sluggishly. His breathing is beginning to slow even more now and turn into loose, rough pants. Dean can feel his little brother's body shuddering as shock sets in and his muscles jerk once against the pain still radiating out from his thighs. His stupidly long hair rubs against Dean’s ear and as much as it pisses him off, he would rather have that annoying tickling than no movement at all.

Dean wishes he could just call on the angel squad and fix everything up, right there. But that is not an option. There is no one just sitting there, waiting for a prayer. No confidant on air force one waiting to help. No Cas to-

Dean has to stop himself there. Going down that rabbit hole does not help right now. Cas is gone and they don’t have an angel on call anymore. Dean is running out of options.

“Sam, I can’t fix this man, we have to get you to the ER.” Dean sighs tightly and releases his hold on Sam’s pulse to instead shift and grab the taller man under his armpits.

Sam groans weakly in protest, his head lolling down against his chest since it can no longer rest on Dean’s shoulder.

“N-N… No hos’p’tl.” He mutters out, his words slurred and slow.

“No choice, Sammy. I’m not letting you check out. Not yet. Not like this.” Dean replies gravely, noticing Sam's deflating posture and trying to move with most of Sam's weight  weakly unloaded in his arms.

“N’t tryin’ t-to ch’ck…” Sam coughs roughly and Dean feels the tremor in his own body like a sickly wave.

Dean shushes him and automatically hugs him closer, trying to maneuver his practically limp brother’s gigantic frame. Dean shifts so he is off the bed kneeling in front of Sam, pulling both of Sam’s long legs so they are bent over the side of the mattress and his feet touch the ground. There is no life in Sam’s shoulders as his upper body slumps forward. He barely has the energy to hold his head up and it dangles weakly towards his chest.

Dean comes face-to-face with his brother’s still-bleeding thighs and bites back a curse. He can’t get Sam to walk to the impala. There’s just no way. Sam’s too big to carry anymore. The kid is just too bulky and heavy. He can’t even move his legs by himself right now, let alone walk, even with Dean's aid.

Dean curses aloud this time and gets up onto one knee, eyes frantically scanning the room for his phone. He eyes it sitting on the table by the door and jumps to his feet to run and grab it. As soon as the hand that was pressing worriedly and reassuringly against Sam’s chest leaves, the younger brother begins to weakly list forward.  Sam blinks sluggishly a few times, trying to keep his eyes open and follow Dean’s blurry frame.

Everything is orange and fuzzy and too yellow to be normal and his head is pounding and his hands are sticky and weak and touching something warm and painful and now he looks down at them because he is too tired to lift his head and everything is just

_red_ and now Dean must utterly

_hate_ him and now the yellow is going away and he wants to throw up and Dean shouldn’t be here because Sam just wanted the pain to

_stop_ but he needs

_this_

_specific_

_pain_  of blood and bone and nerves but not the pain from thinking and now everything is

_hurting_ and teaming up on him and now the red is dark and scarlet and maroon and the orange is gone and it’s all a blood red and he didn’t want this he didn’t want Dean to worry and see all of this red and Sam can hear him barking into the phone that they need an ambulance and now he will have to go to the hospital and there are always too many questions and his thighs 

_hurt_ but he can’t even focus on it anymore now because everything is melting and morphing and gray and black and he wants the ugly orange back but it won’t come back because he is a shitty brother and speaking of here is Dean because Sam doesn’t even need to look to know that Dean is there because he just

_knows_ but damn if that doesn’t hurt more and everything is just so

_numb_ now and there is this super annoying thudding that just needs to stop but it is his own heart in his ears and he

_wants_

_it_

_to_

_stop_ but not if it will hurt Dean even more because this was not about hurting Dean it is never about hurting Dean because he has done that enough in his life and now everything is black and he can literally

_f_ _eel_ the panic radiating from Dean in tangible waves that taste coppery against his tongue and he can’t feel anything anymore but he knows Dean can and the thudding is slowing and there are people yelling a world away and he knows one of those voices is his big brother’s and he never meant for that to happen because that would mean hurting Dean and that must be all he is good for now and he just wanted it to 

_stop_ but it never will because that is who he is for Dean he is just someone to tear him down and rip him apart and everything is black and he can’t feel his body or the pain but he can hear his brother calling his name and not even his real name but a

_nickname_ he doesn’t deserve and he can hear the

_pain_ there and he is just so

“S’rry.”

\--- 

The ambulance was luckily fast enough to get to the motel room right as Sam was finally passing out. Dean was up the wall cursing and gripping tight onto Sam’s blood-stained shirt because _Sammy, no not again, Sammy, please._

There were people around him but he didn’t care because his brother’s last word before falling completely under was an apology. And damn if that didn’t hurt more than anything else. All of the other mumbling and emo crap he had heard prior to that one word meant nothing.

Dean drove in silent shock behind the ambulance as it peeled away to the hospital. He followed in rushed quiet. He had no words to say.

The hospital was bright and hurt his eyes and the sharp smell of disinfectant hurt his nose but that didn’t mean anything because he was too numb to care. Not much can truly shake Dean Winchester. An apology from a dying brother surely fits that small quota. Hell, it _epitomizes_ it.

He is unsurprisingly stopped at the door leading back to the inner hallways of the hospital as Sam is hurriedly whisked away. Dean barely casts the attractive nurse a second glance as she hands him forms to fill out and motions for him to take a seat in the waiting room. There is no one else there besides him and he needs the silence. The fake calm. The façade of “okay.”

Maybe that is why the ambulance got there so fast. No one else needed it tonight. No one should have.

Dean stares down at the neat typed print on the paper in front of him. He can’t read a single word on the page it is too fuzzy and the letters are spinning. It is all too black-and-white and _normal_ and hell if this situation is anything but.

He can’t see Sam right now. Can’t check his pulse. Or listen to his breathing pattern. Or see if he is alive. Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. There are no certainties right now. Dean lives more in the “go-with-the-flow-take-what-life-gives-you” than Sam does. He always has. But not like this. This is not one of those times. It makes him feel sick and shaky. His brother could be dead behind those doors. And he can’t do a damn thing about it. It is no curse or spell or anything supernatural. It is an utterly normal problem and it makes him want to scream.

He can’t go out and fix it by killing a monster and calling it a day. This isn’t something an angel could zap away so they could both go out and get a beer for old time’s sake. No, this is real. And it is terrifying. And it is all Dean’s fault.

The clipboard is out of his hands. Maybe it fell. Dean could care less. His head is in his hands that are propped up on his knees by his elbows.

Sam could be dead behind those doors. He has no ideas. He has no facts. Sam was always the one with the hard facts, the one with the certainties. Sam holds him together. Sam could be dead. And he is falling apart.

He can’t feel anything besides the pain. There is nothing else to feel. There is nothing to do about it either. And it is ripping him apart.

Time seems irrelevant. Who knows how long it has been. Dean vaguely remembers filling out the forms and the attractive nurse coming by to get them and putting a hand on his shoulder and offering him a glass of water. He took it. He doubts he could stand right now. Dean is numb and thank god there is no one else in this waiting room because he could not deal with any more emotions right now. He is so overwhelmed he is numb. There is nothing to feel because there are no facts.

Hope is dangerous. Hope is threatening. Hope is frightening. Dean Winchester doesn’t have hope. So he goes numb. His head is back in his hands and the heels of his palms dig into his eyes. They are dry because he can’t cry, not unless he knows for sure. Knows what exactly, he has no idea, but he needs to just _know_  dammit _._

Maybe he is breathing still. Maybe not. Maybe he is too numb. Dean is not sure if he is thinking about Sam or himself anymore. Sam, his little brother who is bigger than him and probably bigger than whatever bed they have him on right now as they try to get everything out of his system while also sewing his body back up to keep everything inside.

Dean wants to cry. He can’t. He would hate to cry right now. He would absolutely despise it. He wants to. He needs to do something. His hands are rough against his cheeks; rough from doing things, hunting things, killing things, _fixing_ things. Nothing to do now. He wants to just scream until his throat bleeds so he can hear his pain since he cannot seem to feel it.

“Dean, listen son,” A kind voice lulls over his head.

Dean Winchester doesn’t do hope. The voice is too light and happy and deep like a nurturing father and he hates it. A hand goes to his shoulder.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut until he sees pinpricks of stars and his hands rub raw against his face. Two hands rest on either of his shoulders and he feels someone else in front of him kneel down to be level with him.

“Dean, I need you to look at me, boy,” The voice is neither passive nor angry, just there.

Dean shudders in a breath, the first one he has taken in hours, and grits his teeth. He wants to bite his lip raw. He wants to scream at anyone and everyone until he can’t anymore. He wants to rip this stranger’s hands off of him. He rubs his hands down his face, surely leaving red and irritated skin behind. He doesn’t care, it is not like he can feel the sting, or the pain, or _anything_ for that matter.

He blinks wearily at the aged man in his scrubs kneeling in front of him with faint crow’s feet in the corners of his kind and wise gray eyes and salt-and-pepper hair and a face that looks like it could hold any emotion possible but for some reason right now looks somewhere between exhausted and ecstatic and settles on just being relieved.

“Dean, your brother pulled through. The treatments were a success. Sam is alive.” The doctor’s voice is warm and the first thing that pierces the fog that has been trapping Dean all night.

Dean is frozen. He hurts. He can feel it. But there is something better than hope, too. There is reassurance. There is _fact_ again. He can be sure. He can feel again. He can breathe again.

He can smell the antiseptic and bad coffee and tap water from the cups beside him on the table and the plastic dullness clinging to the doctor as well as the faint scents of coppery blood and metallic tools probably lacing his hands from the operating room. He can hear the suddenly deafening silence that becomes shades and degrees warmer and brighter with the doctor’s words. He can taste the bitterness and fear on his tongue and the fuzzy feeling in his mouth from doing nothing but chewing his lip and trying to remember to breathe. He can see the man smiling lightly in front of him, his stance respectfully making Dean higher up than he is, and Dean sees the hope in this man. He can feel it poking at his insides, trying to reassure him, and his hands are shaky from being too tense for too many hours but it is okay because he can relax them now because he has an answer and it is the best one he could have gotten. He wants to feel and he can. He wants to see his brother, and a look at this doctor reassures him that he can.

He wants to hope, but he doesn’t have to anymore, because someone else already did and fixed it for him, fixed the numbness, fixed the barriers by breaking them, fixed him by giving him pain again but even more than that, giving him reassurance, giving him  _peace_.

He wants to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew I am emotionally exhausted now. Dean Winchester is an emotionally repressed SOB and that is a problem sometimes. Reviews/feedback help me to help you! Let me know what you think, what you want, and how I am doing. Love ya'll and I'll update sooner this time I promise.


	3. Normal

Dean has been switching from being emotionally detached to devastated for the past… he lost track of time. Time always passes differently in hospitals. Maybe it’s the walls that are always too blank and white. Maybe it is the smell that is overpoweringly fresh and forces you to believe that it is all pure and clean and safe. Maybe it is how many emotions each room holds that can never quite be scrubbed away with cleaning solution.

Dean can still feel resonating emotions reverberating from the walls of this patient room he is sitting in now. It is quiet besides the continuous beeping from Sam’s heart rate monitor. His little brother’s breathing is calm and steady, even if it is being assisted by the nose cannula. It is still breathing. Still air. Still _life._

And that is all Dean can ask for right now.

He rubs his burning eyes and exhales shakily as he sits back more in this chair another nameless nurse brought him. They told him to go home and get some rest. He managed to refrain from verbally cursing. Needless to say, Dean has not left the hospital since he and Sam first arrived.

Dean quietly looks over the unconscious form of his brother, taking in the sight of Sam in a hospital gown against colorless sheets that make the lanky kid look even paler than he already was. It scares Dean how utterly _small_ Sam can look sometimes. Physically, Sam is a big guy. Taller than pretty much everyone and sure as hell broad and strong enough to last through the rougher days. Dean still wants to cut his hair off to a normal level, but part of him deep down feels that if he did that then it would just make the rest of his brother look so… _not-Sam._

Dean almost chuckles at the thought, being so used to seeing his younger brother with the stupidly long flowy hair, but he is too tired to do so. Not right now.

Maybe it is because the hair makes Sam’s face retain that element of youth. It keeps him from looking too harsh. Sam does that well enough himself too. Dean realizes Sam is a big guy. But his little brother always seems to physically hunker down. Appear smaller, friendlier, more approachable. It shouldn’t work, but it does. Just like the hair.

 _Dammit,_  when did he start thinking this much?

Maybe it is just because everything has been such a blur the past few hours, his brain is finally just trying to focus on something now that he has the chance to privately recollect his thoughts in the only silence he could ever want, one where he knows Sam is safe. Dean crosses his arms over his chest tightly, feeling his own muscles tense for a moment before relaxing as he hisses out a tight, deep exhale.

Sam is right here in front of him, stomach emptied, wounds stitched, blood on the right side of his skin, _alive._ Dean’s eyes flicker to the machines constantly measuring his brother’s vitals and everything is calm and neat and in the proper green safe zones. This is safe. Dean can see the results for himself. He can take Sam’s pulse again with his own two hands if he feels like it. Of course, he already did, he had to.

Now he can breathe. All of the emotions that were whirling through him the past _however-long-it-has-been_ are starting to wear off.

He can be calm again. Pleasantly numb. _Controllably_ numb. He begins to mentally backtrack.

\---

Sam’s attending doctor is one Dr. Nathan Solomon. He likes being called Nathan. He has been a doctor for a long while, Dean gathered as much. Besides the physical clues that hint the doctor to be late middle-age, the man’s demeanor and grace he moves with is too collected and fluid for this to be the man’s first rodeo. He is strangely comforting, which was almost unsettling to Dean at first.

Nathan acted like he imagined a father would. Not necessarily _his_ father, but a dictionary-definition father. Nathan has the standard look too, but there were small discrepancies. Nathan has the salt-and-pepper hair with some facial hair, that honestly looks rather like the man has been too busy to shave, but the rest of him looks put together. His eyes are cloudy and gray and in the beginning Dean couldn’t tell if they were trustworthy or just good at hiding things.

Nathan likes using fist names. He addresses Dean as such, as well as Sam. It makes it almost too homey, but it settles Dean’s nerves. Dean figures this is probably how caretakers like this man cooperate. Comfort without consequence.

Dean wonders if it maybe Bobby he is seeing faintly in Nathan. He has to stop that mental train before it leaves the station.

Nathan does not bullshit him, which is a huge plus in Dean’s book. Nathan gave him the rundown in that damn waiting room where Dean felt almost comatose for a few minutes, also giving the younger man time to mentally process everything. He did keep a hand on Dean though, not as entrapping as the both on each shoulder when he was first trying to connect to Dean, but the one on his lower bicep as a message of support, of comfort. Dean didn’t think he needed it until the doctor let go to give Dean his space and make sure Sam was settled down and squared away so he could take visitors.

The haze of emotions and too many thoughts seemed to seep back in once Nathan left and Dean was glad he was sitting down at least.

This… this  _event…_   _god,_ he can’t even say the damn correct labels… it is all just too _normal_ for him, for _both_ brothers. They fight monsters and demons and the undead and everything in between not… not _this._

Dean wonders if he has bruises from pressing his face into his hands so roughly and rubbing his eyes raw. Each breath feels too heavy, but he has to keep taking them, because now he knows for sure that Sam is too. He begins to mentally recap once more.

Mirtazapine.

That is what Nathan told him Sam had taken. He also told Dean that it is prescribed for major depression and also has been found beneficial for anxiety and insomnia. Sadly, Dean already knew some of this was familiar territory for Sam.

The kid has always had nightmares, especially after he got his soul back. There is always so much lurking just under Sam’s hardened exterior, waiting to bleed out and throw him around. During sleep he is defenseless, and just has to hold on for dear life.

Dean has seen it happen. He has lost count of the number of times he has seen Sam looking dead on his feet from sleep deprivation. The time when his brother was tripping Lucifer always comes back to mind as well.

_“You know they say that, uh, sleep deprivation is an "enhanced interrogation technique”? …Trust me, its torture."_

Dean exhales angrily and has to force the memory away. Not now. He can’t handle that trip down memory lane either.

He has heard it, Sam’s screams and thrashing that pull Dean to his feet to shake his younger brother awake. He has also heard the muted yells of terror that come out as nothing more than ragged exhales of air because Sam is forcing himself to stay quiet for Dean’s sake.

The worst is that he has _felt_ it, deep in his heart when he knows that he just can’t do a damn thing about it, because Sam can’t just _turn it off_. Who can just turn off their brain and make it sleep, especially when it is one as big as Sam’s? It tears Dean up inside, because all he can do is watch and provide support when the kid gets too close to the deep-end. Except…

It has been a while since he could do that, _be that_ , for Sam.

This was unfamiliar territory now.

Anxiety... sure, Dean had always guessed that. Hell, what hunter did not have even some inkling of constant fear and nerves that they were in danger? That came with the lifestyle, you always have to be on your toes.

Major depression… that was new.

That was scary.

Again, Dean reasoned, what hunter always sees the bright side of the situation with this kind of life? People you love get hurt and die. People you had no idea you cared about until they are gone get hurt and die. _You_ could get hurt and die. Lots of harm and death. Not the happiest lifestyle. But still…

Major depression was another ballgame. It seems so… normal, so… _real_ it makes Dean twitchy. Sam has always been the emotional one, sure, but this was something else. This was something dark. This was not something Dean could just kill and fix in a day.

Nathan also told him the dosage Sam took was just heading towards the lethal dosage. The doctor did not think it was an actual overdose attempt, just Sam taking the pills mindlessly to “ease the pain” until he simply ran out. Dean knows how smart Sam is. He knows the kid could do the needed math for a suicide attempt, and he didn’t have that much in the damn bottle.

And that was another thing.

The bottle was brought along with the paramedics to speed up their treatment process. Dean had no qualms with it. He just wanted Sammy alive. Now that his brother’s survival was settled, he could focus on another glaring aspect of this. The bottle was labeled under the name “Amelia Richardson” and was up for a refill in a little under a week. Hearing the name from Nathan’s lips sent a sobering shiver up Dean’s spine.

He knew that name, or at least well enough. Sam’s cryptic confessions and some past laptop research and snooping through Sam’s phone had informed Dean a while ago about the girl Sam decided to call the hunting life quits for. The girl he decided to go after instead of going after Dean. Dean already hated her. This is just another point against her.

Dean had hoped maybe she would at least have helped Sam to get better. Treat him. Heal him. _Help_ him. Dean mused that sure, she got the kid help, but that was taking him to another fill-in-the-blank with a diploma and a clipboard that could give him medication he needed.

Dean’s eyes stung again from rubbing them harshly.

His brother needed medication. The thought rings coldly in his head, down to his heart, and back up. Sam was _diagnosed_ and _prescribed medication._ It still makes his head spin. Hearing and realizing it just felt… too  _normal._ Dean wanted to believe that maybe the medication was simply Amelia’s and his brother just used his trained light fingers to swipe them.

But then again Dean Winchester doesn’t like hearing bullshit.

It doesn’t help the nausea go away. What Nathan brings up next makes him almost ready to run out of the damn building and spill his guts on the spot, remnants of alcohol still potentially in his system set aside.

Nathan next informed Dean before he left to make sure Sam was totally settled that the stitching on his little brother’s thighs had been rather messy, but he strongly believes there will be little to no nerve damage and rather just tissue reformation. Sam is supposed to stay off his feet and give his skin time to heal. Too much movement can disrupt the stitches and lead to them ripping, infection, or even further muscle damage.

Dean will tie his brother to the goddamn bed if he has to.

Nathan asked him with a calm and delicate voice if Dean was aware of how long the aggressive harm to Sam’s thighs had been going on. And that was too much. Too damn much. Dean would have jumped up and left at that, had his body decided to cooperate rather than go numb and freeze up. All he could manage was a terrified shake of his head. Nathan looked sad and Dean wanted to run right then and there.

_"...about ten years, off and on."_

Ten years.

Ten _goddamn_ years.

Nathan said there were not that many scars from so long ago, also that it was difficult to know for sure with the new damage done, but there were marks and cuts on Sam’s skin from about that long ago. And many since.

Dean almost swallowed his tongue, it was so big and thick in his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. He forced in air when Nathan squeezed his arm and reminded him to.

Nathan then asked if Sam had a history of depression and suicidal tendencies. Dean tried to reply, he honestly did try to make up a smooth lie, but the raw connection pouring out from Nathan’s eyes shut off his crap feeder. Dean confessed in a small voice that he didn’t know.

With Nathan's continued planned questioning, Dean vaguely mentioned the two of them were in a tough and demanding line of work, no specific sector of government branch for them to look up, just enough to give the doctor an idea.

Nathan asked if Sam had gone through any extreme recent trauma. Dean wanted to laugh and scream simultaneously. The only thing he could get out of his system was a shaky nod. He was able to restart his silver tongue a little bit and weave a partial history about Sam losing his girlfriend and the two of them having some fights after having to split up for work.

Nathan seemed to understand enough and left it at that. He could see the pure raw hurt in the young man’s gaze. To the doctor, Dean looked like a man who would run to the ends of the earth with both legs broken for what his heart was set on. A man who gave up everything for something or someone besides himself and honestly did not expect anything in return. A man who is exhausted because he almost just lost everything that made the sacrifice worth it.

Nathan decided he could wait with further questioning and planning for both of the boys’ futures. Right now, he wanted to be the bringer of good news and give the tired young man practically collapsed in exhaustion with surprising ramrod straight posture reassurance that he did the right thing and his brother was safe.

Nathan is a big brother. He can relate.

He reassured Dean a few more times after breaking both crippling pieces of news, seeing the wear and tear on the younger man in his wide and focused eyes. Nathan felt the comfort fell on almost deaf ears, but he needed to say it. He hoped Dean needed to hear it. He really did have to go make sure that Sam had been cleaned and treated properly and with care before he could let anyone visit him. He gave Dean one more reassuring squeeze on the arm before leaving.

Nathan liked the kid. He really did. Something about him. Maybe he was just sick of seeing the ordinary patient support members and groups coming through the door in a whirlwind of emotions that he could not distinguish being up or down or true or adrenaline or fake or forced. He liked the rawness of people. When you get to peel their layers back and fix what is underneath.

Nathan hopes he just did enough for these two boys.

The look on Dean’s face when the older brother was allowed to finally see Sam told him enough.

\---

Dean is not sure how long he has been sitting in this chair. He is not quite sure how long he has been trying to mentally organize everything.

He is tired. Bone-tired. _Soul-tired._ But he is calm.

Sam is alive and breathing. The kid's thighs-

_Scarred thighs from self-harm… ten years on and off..._

Dean swallows roughly and takes a steadying breath.

…They are stitched and whole again. One day soon they will be healed again. And they will stay that way this time. Dean will make sure of it.

Dean can see the familiar wrinkle in Sam’s brow come and go with the occasional muscle twitch in his brother's long limbs and all he can do now is hope that the kid gets some sleep. He wonders if that is what Sam was trying to do in the first place. Get some goddamn _peace._

The kid said he was sorry. Maybe he really didn’t know what he was doing. Dean went out to drink. Sam stayed back and got rid of all of this...  _crap-whatever-it-is_ , in another way.

Dean sighs tightly once more. He wants to understand. He wants to see inside his brother’s gigantor brain and try to figure out what went wrong. He wants to figure out what truly _broke_ his little brother. He knows it was his words. His fault. But Sam and him had fought loads of times before...

What happened this time? Dean tries to remember what he said under the influence of the penny and he _can't and it is driving him insane._ But surely just his typical dumbass words couldn't have led to... to  _this_? Something happened. Something that hit Sam  _deep_. 

Dean needs to figure it out, so he can make sure it never happens again. Sure, they get angry at each other and leave and then make up and get pissed and wash rinse and repeat so what the hell _happened?_ Dean wants to understand...

He really does.

Chick flick moments be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, I am not trying to drag this out too much I promise, this piece is just going down these emotional roads and I am kind of following along. Thank ya'll so much for reading and giving such amazing support. Let me know if you want to see anything specific or have any other feedback!
> 
> (P.S. Dr. Nathan Solomon is made up. But there is a USA Lacrosse player named Nathan Solomon so...)


	4. Pure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR TALK OF SELF-HARM/SUICIDAL THOUGHTS.
> 
> Honestly, this is just me getting in Sam's head again because I feel like the story needed it. The full on "broment" is coming soon, I promise.

It is dark. Pitch black. That sense of _void_ that there is simply nothing there no matter how hard you look. It hurts his eyes. There is _nothing_.

Sam wants to think for a minute this is hell. He gets a laugh out of that. Or… he tries to.

He knows better. Lord knows, he knows better. But everything is just so _heavy_. He cannot feel his body or any physical attachments. Maybe he finally is really, _truly, utterly, **dead**_ **.** That would be a first.

No two-day nap until being brought back with a lump of scar tissue over his spine. No bone-shattering impact against his ribs that drives the splinters of bone and lead into his heart until he sees his brother a few moments later at the memory of a dinner table. No chains and hooks pulling and ripping pieces of him away as Lucifer has his fun for too many years to keep track of. No utter _brokenness_ being split and torn and ripped and reassembled and ruined again while his body is running on auto-robocop-pilot topside.

No. None of that. Just some nice damn peace and quiet. It’s heavy, sure, and his eyes hurt, but it’s nice. He could like it here.

And then just like that it is gone. Ruined. Broken. Shattered.

Beeping.

Mechanical, annoying beeping. It is faint, but Sam can hear it. And damn if he doesn’t recognize it. Heart monitor.

He is still alive. Shit.

His limbs are deadweight and his eyes are not opening any time soon, but that only takes away so much. The beeping is getting louder and is accompanied by the faint sound of rushing air. His nose itches and tingles slightly but there is no energy in his face to tick against the feeling.

He knows the feeling. He’s hooked up to oxygen then. Why…?

 _Cannula (plural cannulas or cannulae or cannulæ): A hose or tube that connects directly to an oxygen (O2) bottle/source from the user's nose, commonly used by aircraft pilots or others needing direct oxygen breathing apparatus_.

His brain lazily fires the facts off.

Ah. So he must be heavily drugged then if we are back on this fun stream of consciousness.

Sam wants to shake his head and chase the thoughts away, but he has no motor control right now. His head is also beginning to pound and maybe the motion would not help the situation. At least pounding is some form of sensation.

The smell is almost overwhelming now. Maybe it is the combination of what he also faintly tastes. The presence of disinfectant is almost overwhelming. It is sterile and sharp and faintly tinged with lemons but it does not truly cover the faint presence of warm rust. Blood. Lots of blood. Or at least there _was_ a lot at some point. But why?

_...Derived from Latin cannula meaning “small or low reed” a diminutive of canna meaning “cane or reed…”_

His mouth is dry, but at least it is a physical sensation. The sooner he can feel everything again the sooner he can figure how to get the hell out of here. The beeping seems to be getting dimmer once more, but he is not losing consciousness.

At least he hopes he isn’t. The rushing is louder, but different this time. The air is hissing into his nose and still tickling slightly but there is a rising wave of something deafening him. It is a rush and warm and painful.

The pain is coming back. No, he doesn’t _need_ that right now, he can keep this under control. He can manage this way. This situation is not that bad, not bad enough to need the pain. He has dealt with worse and he can deal with this. He can manage with facts and sensations and real-time analysis. He can do this.

The waves are getting louder and soon the beeping is muffled. His chest is moving faster... He can feel his chest. There is scratchy fabric buzzing against his skin and his torso hurts. It is not a sharp pain, but rather a low and dull ache, like soreness. But why-

His breath hitches and his throat is rusty and dry. The cannula is feeding him oxygen and he suddenly doesn’t want it anymore.

_This often occurs when there is a lack of oxygen in respired air, resulting in a deficiency of oxygen in the blood (hypoxia) and an increase in carbon dioxide-_

NO, no he’s not oxygen deprived. He just doesn’t want this-this _whatever_ pumping into him anymore. There is too much inside him. Too much pressure and everything is rising and it is starting to _hurt_ but his brain is spinning faster and faster. This thing in his nose isn’t helping anymore and-

_...Derived from Ancient Greek κάννα or kánna meaning “reed,” derived…_

His chest is throbbing now and the pain is spreading down to his stomach. No… it is _coming from_ his stomach. It is empty and caving in on itself and it _hurts_. The nothingness is back, but this kind is so much worse. There is nothing left-

_Gastric lavage, also commonly called stomach pumping or gastric irrigation, is the process of cleaning out the contents of the stomach. It has been used for over 200 years as a means of eliminating poisons from the stomach. Such devices are normally used on a person who has ingested a poison or overdosed on a drug-_

_Overdose._

The wave is rising more and more and he can’t breathe. He can feel his body lying on the bed. And this is a hospital bed. This is a _goddamn hospital bed and he is the patient_. He can’t breathe. He put himself here. He must remember something. Of course he does... he has all the facts. But he can't  _breathe_ and this stupid cannula thing in his nose is not helping anymore because he... he...

 _...Derived from- D_ _ri_ _ved from-_ _Drove from- M_ _otel… Ambulance… Dean… Hospital..._

His muscles are heavy and paralyzed and buzzing. The switch is flipped and he can't control the pain anymore. He has no control over anything anymore. His limbs are not just lifeless, they are _restrained_. Sam has had enough experience in his life to know what it feels like to have your wrists bound down. He is trapped. Trapped and suffocating. What the hell happened he was just-just… just trying to make… make the pain go away…

_One pill, two pills, three pills, more, drink some alcohol and then there’s four…_

_“There you go, prescribed to Amelia Richardson. Just tell them I’m your wife, Sam. I know you won’t put your name out there, but you need these. You need to get some control over this… this whatever it is.”_

His muscles are locked and the restraints are rattling and everything _hurts_ and there is barely sound over the screams hidden in the roar of this wave of blood and rapid heartbeats.

_Overdose (noun)(ˈōvərˌdōs/): an excessive and dangerous dose of a drug-_

NO but he didn’t mean to be dangerous, he didn’t mean to hurt anyone, he just wanted everyone to shut up for a minute because his brain was going too fast and the facts weren’t helping anymore, he never meant to… to…

_Suicide (noun): the act or an instance of taking one's own life voluntarily and intentionally..._

Oh god, what the hell did he do this time…? Is _that_ what he was doing...? He just wanted the pain to stop like always…

_...Derived from modern Latin suicidium 'act of suicide', suicida 'person who commits suicide', from Latin sui 'of oneself' + caedere 'kill...'_

_“We find a monster, we kill it, end of story Sam.”_

Is that what he is?

_Monster (mänstər) (noun): an imaginary creature that is typically large, ugly, and frightening._

_"You're a_ monster, _Sam, a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back..."_

_"Sam you are getting HUGE kid, you’re getting to be taller than me and I don’t like it."_

_“Sasquatch.”_

_“Gigantor.”_

_“Moose."_

_"Monster, vampire, bloodsucker, demon..."_

He’s not a brother, he knows that much now...

_“…more of a brother to me than-”_

Not a human, not a hunter, not _pure,_ not anymore, he is flawed now, too many-

_“Mistakes? Well, let's go through some of Sammy's greatest hits. Drinking demon blood? Check.”_

_Pure (pyo͝or) (adjective): Not mixed or adulterated with any other substance or material…_

_"Being in cahoots with Ruby? Not telling me that you lost your soul?”_

_…without any extraneous and unnecessary elements…_

_"Or how about running around with Samuel for a whole year, letting me think that you were dead while you were doing all kinds of crazy?”_

_…clean and not harmful in any way…_

_“Those aren't mistakes, Sam.”_

_…free of any contamination..._

_"Those are choices!"_

He can’t breathe and everything is on _fire_ and he knows the devil is waiting at his heels calling him home.

_...Derived from Middle English pur, derived from Latin purus. Akin to Old High German fowen meaning “to sift…”_

He didn’t want this to happen. He just wanted it all to go _away-_

_“You never even wanted this life. Always blamed me for pulling you back into it.... Everything you've ever done since you climbed into my ride has been to deceive me.”_

His eyes are hot and stinging and he still hasn’t opened them but he must be crying. He is trapped in his head and he can’t feel anything or hear anything over the rush of blood everywhere and he just wants it all to stop. His muscles are clenched and his thighs suddenly hit with a new wave of pain.

He gasps in a breath. He can breathe.

There are people all around him and rapid beeping and alarms and shouting and he can _hear_.

There are hands on his arm, familiar rough hands. Grounding, _real, there, physical._ Everything is loud and it _hurts_ but that is okay because he has something else he can focus on. Air is returning to his lungs and a fresh wave of cold calmness sweeps over him that is likely a fresh wave of some feel-good pain medication but Sam could care less because he can feel _something_ again and it is good this time.

The rapid beeping is gone and all that is left is the paced metronome of his heartbeat. The voices die down and there is only one left. It is familiar and comforting.

 _…Derived from Sanskrit “punāti” meaning “he cleanses_.”

 _“Sam, listen man I know you can hear me. Even if you don’t think you can, I know you can. You gotta come out of this Sammy. You have to. I had no idea man. I mean, we aren’t exactly the best talkers when it comes to crap like this, but… but_ damn _Sam I had no clue it was this bad man. You have to tell me when it gets like this because honestly, coming back to the room to find you… like… like_ that _scared the crap out of me. And it’s not happening again.”_

The room is quiet and still. It is cool and clear. Dean’s remaining hand on his arm is grounding. It is there. It is a fact, it is pure.

_…Derived from Middle Irish “úr” meaning fresh, new..._

_“From here on out you feel like-like_ this _again, you freaking come find me. I don’t care what I’m doing or what time it is or whatever the hell else. You come find me because it’s my job to take care of you.”_

Sam is losing feeling again but he knows his brother’s emotion by the tone of his voice. In the blackness he can picture Dean sitting there, back straight but muscles tired, one hand hanging onto Sam for dear life and the other clenched and resting on his thigh. Green eyes tired but still aware, awaiting the challenge without knowing what it is. Like always.

_“No more of this sneaking pills shit. Or this… other stuff. Shit, I don’t know what I am saying. You know. You always know. But I don’t. Not anymore.”_

The pain is gone.

 _“So when you wake up you sure as hell better not make me give you this grand speech again and you are sure as_ hell _going to do some talking, little brother. I need answers and you always seem to have them so now I’m just waiting. But I’m not leaving Sam. Not again.”_

Sam is weightless. The waves have subsided and the burning sharpness has vanished. He can breathe again. He can think again because he has the facts again because-

_Dean (noun): brother, caretaker, hunter, driver, Stone Number One._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are almost to the end my lovelies! As always, comments/feedback are greatly appreciated!


	5. Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I am not dead! I apologize for how long this took, university is back in session for me and I have also been dealing with some major health problems of my own, but I am not leaving this story because I love it and it is dear to me. I hope you enjoy!

The void is back. But it is different this time. Calmer. Darker. Peaceful without missing something.

Sam can feel his hands. He can move his wrists. He is not bound down anymore. His fingers are slack and resting against worn material, but he can feel them. It must be his jeans his skin is rubbing against. He has worn the few pairs he has enough times in his life to recognize them by now.

There is a faint pressure in the distance, looming behind this dark fog he is stuck in. His thighs hurt. He can feel the pressure. The stitches. Why are there stitches…?

Hospital. Damn hospital. Because he messed up. Again.

He can feel the air circulating weakly through his system. His nose is not buzzing anymore. No cannula. That is a start. His wrists are free. Another bonus. There is leather pressed against his back and something cold against the side of his face. Gravity is pulling his head down and to the side. He can hear the engine rumbling. Feel the old heating system churning through the vents and hitting his shoulder. There is music. It is faint, but it is there. It is always there.

It is Queen, this time. One of the bands Sam actually doesn’t mind listening to on full blast, and Dean knows it.

Dean must be worried.

Sam can hear the muffled breathing. It is too calm. He can tell his brother is internally freaking out. But on the outside he is trying to hold it together. Like always.

The leather beneath him and behind him is comfortable and familiar. The glass against his cheek is cool to the touch, but nice against his slightly hot skin. His body shifts slightly with each jolt of the Impala. Each pothole that stirs him more than normal also results in a slight jerk of the car and muffled curse from beside him.

There is another sensation against any of his exposed skin. Old wool. A blanket from the trunk. It is slowly sliding off of him down to his feet with each jerk of the car, but it is there. Dean must have placed it over him before this little road-trip started. The notion seems so comforting and absurd and so utterly… _not-Dean_ it almost makes Sam laugh in disbelief. But he has no control over his body yet. He can still gather enough information from around him.

The battling emotions of tension and relief are rolling off of Dean in waves. Sam can feel his brother’s rigidity against the long front seat of the car, but also hear the comfortable shift of his Dean’s hands and jacket as he keeps himself occupied with his thoughts and distracted with music.

_“Pressure, pushing down on me, pressing down on you. No man ask for…”_

He can hear Dean humming along slightly with the music. He has never been able to resist doing it as a habit to calm down. Always said it keeps his brain busy. Sam can tell something is bothering his brother. Not just surface level either, but deep down.

And Dean Winchester doesn’t do deep down.

He buries deep down until you don’t remember where you put it and forget it existed and pile more on top of it until it fades into nothing.

_“Under pressure, that brings a building down, splits a family in two…”_

Dean hums along quietly and off-key. It is too homey. Too familiar. It rubs Sam the wrong way, because he knows what happened. How could he forget? Dean should be leaving him behind at that hospital after rightfully screaming his head off and driving off with no strings attached. He deserves to. Sam shouldn’t have put him through all of this. That is on Sam’s shoulders. No one else’s. All of this is.

And here is Dean comforting both of them. Not by pretending that it didn’t happen, but subconsciously hinting that… that it is _okay_ right now. That _they_ are okay. Not _great_... but okay...

It is so odd and surprising that Sam feels it burning deep inside him.

_“Puts people on streets…”_

Dean should be angry. He should be furious. That is his go-to. It always has been. The past few days that gave Dean no option but to show his true colors are testament enough. This is not 100% Dean sitting beside him. This is the ‘trying-to-fix-everything’ Dean. This is the Dean that tears a new hole in Sam’s heart and digs around.

_“It’s the terror of knowing, what the world is about. Watching some good friends screaming ‘let me out…’”_

There are no facts firing off in his head because Sam doesn’t have any right now. This is so rare. So raw. It hurts deep in his chest. It is a pure moment. And he knows what he has to do to keep it that way.

Instead he has song lyrics that he has heard a million times circling faintly in his head to keep him grounded. That is enough right now. There is faint stinging in his thighs that is still most likely numb from the last shot of whatever painkiller the hospital was pumping into him before Dean busted him out. But there is enough of an edge to make him _feel._

He needs to make Dean understand. He needs to stop dragging his brother around because he cannot handle his own problems. He needs Dean to stop feeling obligated to watch his back, when Sam can never fully return the favor.

_“Pray tomorrow gets me higher…”_

“You didn’t have to do this, Dean.” Sam finds enough control to make his vocal chords work over the purposefully quiet music.

The Impala suddenly swerves once on the desolate highway road at 1:00 in the morning and Dean curses loudly over the song’s chorus as he gets his baby back under control.

 _“Christ,_ Sam, scare me half to death again please, I haven’t had enough lately.” The sarcastic words leave Dean’s mouth before he can stop them.

Internally, yes his heart is speeding at a jackhammer’s pace, but a huge weight is suddenly gone. Sam has barely even moved, giving no signal at all to his awakening back into the land of the living. Damn kid is too well trained to do otherwise. He still could have lifted his head from the window. Or groaned. Or, hell, made some kind of change in breathing pattern. Dean hoped even just _playing Queen_ would lead Sam to make some noise of acknowledgment before plunging straight into consciousness.

Then again, the kid always did everything all in. Leave it to Sam to keep him on his toes even after surgery.

_“Chipping around, kick my brains around the floor. These are the days, it never rains but it pours…”_

Dean’s comment makes the tear in Sam’s heart rip a little more. Of course Dean is angry. He was expecting that. This is just the beginning. He knows that, he should be prepared for worse. He _is_ prepared for worse… at least he needs to be.

Sam swallows roughly and finally shifts in his seat, testing out his tired muscles. He hisses in a sharp breath of air when moving his legs but other than that bites his tongue to keep quiet. He straightens up, removing his skin from the cool, grounding window to instead sit as upright as he can manage. Vertigo grips him for a second, all the nutrients in his body most likely from saline and injections right now and not efficient to support him, but he holds himself firm.

“I’m sorry. For all of this.” Sam continues carefully, his voice smaller than he would like.

Dean’s eyebrows furrow at that. He winces when he hears Sam’s pain from his wounded thighs and has to mentally restrain himself from reaching over and helping his lanky little brother settle in more comfortably. He has to flex his fingers around the wheel to keep from even just grabbing the stupid blanket from where it is now crumpled by his brother's feet and try to fit it over the kid's stupidly large but exhausted frame. Dean's mouth is suddenly dry and he repositions himself slightly in response, keeping one eye on the empty road and the other on his brother beside him who is suddenly tenser than Dean has seen him in a while.

Sam still looks that sickly shade of pale that only comes from illness… and near-death, Dean adds as an after-thought. The kid was already tired and worn from all of the emotional baggage and turmoil resulting from their situation lately, but this is another level. This is Sam fighting for consciousness. Fighting for control. Even if Dean couldn’t see the signs before, or _wouldn’t,_ he sure as hell will now.

Dean glances sideways once more to see Sam’s back straight as a rail, fighting the urge to sink back into the familiar leather of the car and give into the exhaustion the kid must be under. But of course, Sam is resisting it tooth and nail. Dean can also see Sam’s head tilted down, away from focusing on anything and especially Dean, hair framing the side of his face to shield him further. Dean can still see the sorrow and hurt in his little brother’s gaze as he tries to tiredly push it down and appear collected. It won’t work, not this time.

_“Turned away from it all like a blind man, sat on a fence but it don’t work…”_

“I… I never meant…” Sam’s voice is weak and cracks a little as he winces and wets his lips to try again.

Dean glances to see Sam’s eyes focused solely on his hands clasped together in his lap. There are faint rubs and burns circling his pale wrists from the restraints when he fought them during his major panic attack back at the hospital. They should be hurting like a bitch, or at least _uncomfortable_ with the amount of tension Sam is placing on them right now, but leave it to his brother to welcome the pain.

As a punishment or as a relief, Dean doesn’t know anymore.

Sam’s hands are shaking as he clears his throat quietly. Dean grips the steering wheel tighter, biting his lip. He wants to interrupt and yell at his brother until he is blue in the face for making him worry so much and have to think about what would happen without the giant dork in his life. He wants to pull over the car right now and hug the idiot to make sure he is alive and never leaving again. He wants to go to a crappy diner by a crappy hotel and get some food into the kid and just _be with him_ for a night because damn, he misses it too.

And the fact that all this is what it took to make him realize that Sam was craving that same longing for that brother connection they are supposed to have for so long makes him sick to his stomach. Yes, Dean is angry, but not just at Sam. He is as much to blame here.

_“Keep coming up with love but it’s so slashed and torn…”_

“I… I’m so sorry, Dean.” Sam mutters with as much force he can put behind his sandpaper voice and closes his eyes against the oncoming onslaught he knows is waiting and sitting beside him.

And if that isn’t enough to crack Dean, nothing is.

Dean can hear the complete brokenness in Sam’s voice. The kid is shaking now in what must be more than just exhaustion but also fear and guilt and just utter defeat. He is pulling to the side of the road before he can even think about it for a second more. Sam’s breath hitches in alarm and it makes Dean want to tear his heart out to stop it from hurting so bad. The kid thinks Dean wants to hurt him. The realization makes Dean’s throat tight. He has to fix this. Somehow, he has to make this right.

_“Insanity laughs under pressure we’re breaking…”_

Sam feels the panic attack building slowly inside him. He was waiting for Dean to snap, and here it is. He isn’t sure what this will lead to, because that is just how Dean is. He is a damn good hunter. Probably the best. He has learned a lot and there is no one better. Especially not Sam. Dean is unpredictable and knows how to make it hurt more than anything you could expect.

Sam is just waiting now as the Impala slows down and pulls onto the side of the road next to some large field with stars overhead. It reminds Sam of a better time with fireworks and without this rift in between them that Sam continues to unwillingly make larger more and more every day.

_“Can’t we give ourselves, one more chance? Why can’t we-”_

Dean shuts the car off and Sam automatically becomes even more upright and tense in the silence. Dean didn’t think it was possible. The quiet hits them both for a moment, robbing them both of words, as the Impala’s engine makes a few noises and she shuts down. Dean pries his other hand from the wheel and forces himself to take a deep breath.

The noise makes Sam jerk beside him and Dean wants to punch something because he is only making this worse. Of course Sam is afraid, the kid must think Dean hates him. Dean looks at the steering wheel for another minute in silence, trying to collect his thoughts, when he hears the escaped frightened shudder hiss out of Sam’s nose.

Dean glances to his brother and sees the man’s large frame locked into an alert posture and practically vibrating with the effort it takes to keep himself like that in his current state of exhaustion. Dean’s shoulders sympathetically droop a little in response. His eyes flicker down to Sam’s clenched and shaking fists, ivory knuckles standing out sharply beneath white skin. The sick color of the kid’s skin shows just how _real_ it is that the shortage of and borrowed fluids in his system are just enough to keep him alive and awake, not to make him strong of comfortable.

“Sam,” Dean says his brother’s name with an almost tired exhale.

“I know.” Sam responds quickly, not even giving Dean time to go on.

Sam sucks in another breath and clears his throat. He forces his eyes open and notices his trembling fists. He forces his hands to relax and grabs above his bent knees instead, digging his fingers into his familiar jeans and sore flesh. Dean notices the change, keeping in mind where the kid’s hands are placed and deeming them outside of the danger zone, and glances back up to Sam’s distraught but determined face.

Sam stares at the dashboard in front of him with unwavering intensity that is threatening to break under exhaustion. His whole body is trembling slightly now and Dean can tell the kid just needs some food and some rest. And a damn hug or something to break down this hardened front he is hiding behind.

“I know.” Sam repeats quietly in the silence, “I’m sorry.”

Dean forces himself to take another breath. He said he wanted to understand. He decided that a while ago now. And he does. He needs to tread lightly. He knows that now too.

“I don’t think you do, Sammy.” Dean replies carefully.

Sam cringes as if physically struck before shaking his head once and snapping back into his defensive but upright posture. Air is leaving his system quickly now and Dean can sense how afraid and confused his little brother is. He glances down to see Sam’s fingers digging into the tops of his knees, but not his thighs.

“I’m not mad, Sammy. Trust me, I know you must think that in that-” Dean stops himself from using the word ‘freaky’ and takes a short breath, “…that big head of yours, but I’m not.”

Sam’s shoulders slump slightly but his back becomes even straighter. Dean can see him internally fighting his body’s instincts to relax and give into the exhaustion. Dean licks his lips and focuses on his brother’s body language, trying to get through to him.

“I am sorry too, Sam, for-for all of this… all of this _this,”_ Dean motions vaguely with one hand, tripping slightly over his words.

Sam’s head ducks again as his face contorts and he visibly winces in response to the words. His hands jerk, relax, and flex and Dean can see now that Sam’s thumbs are digging into where the bandages are under his little brother’s jeans. Dean takes a slow breath and forces it out with just as much measure. This is entering the danger zone and he needs to take it easy.

He wants to grab his brother’s wrists and yank him away and into some kind of safety, but he also knows that is not what Sam needs right now. It is not what either of them need. It goes against everything engrained in Dean, but right now he needs to _talk_ instead of just _fight_ to fix a problem. Damn, he will never be good at this. But he has to try.

For Sam.

“I…” Dean clears his throat and stares at Sam pointedly, refusing to let himself waver this time, “I’m sorry too, Sammy, for leading you to this. I’m sorry, little brother.”

Sam is full-on shaking now and Dean can see the internal pressure and emotion building inside the kid. Sam forces in a breath and Dean winces after hearing the air trip over his brother's dry throat and constricted lungs.

“You shouldn’t be,” Sam replies in a weak but still emotionally-capped voice, “…It's not your fault.”

And hell, if that doesn’t break Dean even further.

Dean exhales as if he was punched and turns further in his seat to face Sam fully. He is done with this beating around the bush bullshit. He already decided for the both of them that they are fixing this. He doesn’t care how much it hurts or how much he will have to suck it up and talk. He needs to do this. They both do.

“So tell me why,” Dean replies with a voice much stronger and even than he is internally feeling.

Sam freezes at that. His back is still too straight and his shoulders are still awkwardly listing to the side, but the only trembling is now in his hands that are still gripping to his legs like a vice. Dean glances down to see red beginning to dot and seep into Sam’s jeans around where his thumbs are digging into his thighs, but the pressure seems to let up a little after Dean speaks. Dean takes one more cautious breath before looking up at Sam’s face with determination.

“Talk to me.” Dean says simply.

Sam never thought he would hear that sentence coming from his brother’s lips in his life. His thighs are beginning to sting again, he can feel the hot blood starting to gather beneath his thumbs, but the action was automatic because he felt himself slipping. Now… Now this is different. This is Dean giving Sam control. This is Dean trying… trying to listen.

Sam steals a glance over at Dean, the first real look since he woke up, and cannot help but catch his brother’s intense but open gaze and matching posture. Sam swallows roughly, turning his head a little more to stop hiding behind his hair and see the pure concern and honesty in Dean’s eyes. Dean watches his brother closely, seeing Sam start to minutely relax and come out from behind this iron front he initially put up.

Sam looks scared still, but he also looks intrigued. The kid is never one to turn down a puzzle.

Sam blinks once in confusion, feeling his hands automatically starting to release his thighs slowly, inch by inch. Dean’s eyes flicker down and catch the movement before returning to hold Sam’s gaze with truthful concern.

“Talk to me.” He repeats in a tone somewhere between comforting, worried, and commanding.

Sam is still trembling slightly but he can see the honesty in Dean’s gaze. His brother actually wants to just... _talk._ Sam knows these are dangerous waters he is being welcomed into. There are no certainties with Dean Winchester, hunter extraordinaire. But this is also his big brother. His stone number one. His caretaker.

And if what they need to do is talk, Sam can try. It will hurt like a bitch, and he doubts it will end well for Dean’s well-being as well as his own mental stability and physical health, but he will try.

For Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 1 or 2 (probably just 1) more chapter(s) after this, friends! Thank you all so much for your feedback. You are all seriously some of the sweetest people and I am so touched and honored to receive such compliments from you lovelies.  
> Remember, Comments/Kudos help the world go round!  
> Also, I was going to put a song in this chapter anyways, and felt quoting "Under Pressure" not only worked because of the lyrics, but also because both the amazing Freddie Mercury and now David Bowie need to be remembered... RIP Goblin King. (Obviously, I do not own the song in any way)


End file.
